Hermione's Letter

Chapter 1

Revised 31 July 2003

Hermione's Letter copyright © 2003 Steven Gilks. All rights reserved. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and all related scenarios and everything else Harry Potter copyright © J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.

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Chapter 1

Hermione Granger, Gryffindor genius and Muggle-born witch, friend of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and seriously beautiful young girl, walked slowly and perhaps a little timidly along a dirt path which wound its way through the huge green fields that surrounded her home. The emerald leaves of the trees present there fluttered about in the cold winds brushing themselves up against the colossal trees. Hermione shuddered as she made her way through this expanse of greens and browns, as she had often done, as she had always done. The lowering sun projected a radiance of orange across the land and Hermione's face was bathed in it; the light made her seem to glow and to any outsider she would have seemed as beautiful as crystal clear waters washing up on a golden beach. Hermione often came to these woods to contemplate her life and to think about her friends. She'd not seen Harry or Ron all summer, but she had kept in touch by owl. But she missed them dearly, and wanted, even needed to see them.

She walked on down the track, heading towards the massive gate in front of her house. The house itself was as big as a national monument; there was a huge garden with fountains and bushes, a swimming pool, a small car park, and at the very front, large metal gates and a similar fence surrounding the structure, which in itself took much ground, and extended back and up quite a distance too. There was a smaller structure to the side, which although well maintained, was usually deserted.

Hermione quickened her pace, and unaware of her actions, walked straight into the closed gate, knocking herself back and down onto the dirt track. She had been distracted, and for the same reason she always was lately – her friend Harry, The Boy Who Lived.

She picked herself up, brushing the dirt off of her long summer dress, and entering a keypad sequence on a control panel on the gates to open them. As they were electronically sealed, the doors took a moment to open, but eventually they parted, and she passed through, the gates swinging shut behind her. As she walked up the drive, she continued her quiet contemplation.

Her feelings of joy at seeing him once again following her long recovery from being petrified by an ancient Basilisk, a snake-like creature that had previously been living inside the long-hidden Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had bordered on ecstasy, and she had been somewhat overwhelmed by the level of emotion she had experienced then. It was most unusual, she thought. Her logical mind could not dismiss this most illogical thing, and she had had plenty of time to consider it over the summer; the feelings of transient energy that passed through her body when she took Harry in her arms and clung on to him; the powerful sentiments that she now experienced when she simply spoke to him; these things were indicative of the new connection that existed between the two young magic folk.

She had come up with only one conclusion. Her feelings were demonstrative of only one thing – love. But how could she feel that way for him? How could she be attracted to her best friend? Why was her heart telling her to risk it all just to hold him in her arms, as her own? Could she risk losing the wonderful friendship they shared? How far would she go to satisfy her feelings, her need for this boy?

She couldn't expel these ideas from her mind, no matter how much she told herself to. Hermione was academically very brilliant, but her powers of thought-stopping were not as immense. But then, she thought, no-one was perfect. Besides, what sane girl could resist Harry? He was attractive, a great Seeker, the only person to have ever survived an attack by the feared Lord Voldemort, and a master of insulting the constant niggle that was Draco Malfoy. Hermione felt she'd be mad not to like him. But then, with so many girls swooning at the mention of his name, perhaps what he really needed was someone who didn't do that. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps I shouldn't go after him. He really needs a friend, and maybe I will be better for him in that capacity. Maybe I should sweep these feelings aside. But there was no conviction to her thoughts, and really she knew that if it wasn't just lust, but in fact was the powerful sentiment commonly known as love, no-one, not she, Harry, or anyone else, would be able to resist it.

It gave her something nice to think about as she reached the front door and entered her house with the use of another security code. For Hermione, something else that was nice to think about was her school work. She had of course done her homework at the start of summer, but she had felt that the cancellation of exams that had been declared by Professor Dumbledore as a school treat at the end of the previous term and school year obliged her to do additional work to maintain her standard. There was no doubt that Hermione did her absolute best when it came to academics. She maintained a massive standard and was truly someone to be measured by in that regard.

She glanced into the living room, which was indeed a huge room, as big as a hall, and saw her father there, watching television and drinking tea from a flagon-sized cup. He saw her and gave her a smile, and she returned the gesture, although not entering the room. She was still deep in thought. She reached the staircase and ascended to the first floor, then rounding the corners she utilised a further set of stairs to get to the second floor – her floor. The entire floor was decorated in a deep purple tone, which Hermione was very proud of – she loved this colour, and it was a calming influence on her.

Her bedroom, by comparison, although of a similarly large size to the other rooms in the house, held a stark contrast on its walls to those of the corridor it was adjoined to. The bright yellow shades emitted by the Sun were reflected here; the walls were the colour of sunflowers, and the bright tones reflected Hermione's good-heartedness.

Hermione entered the room, and closed the heavy wooden door, locking it with a long, brass key so as not to be disturbed by her parents. She liked to work undisturbed, although of course tonight, she knew, she did not want to be alone solely so she could work. She also wanted to think without interruption. Fortunately, Hermione's mother and father were very aware of her moods, and were able to tell when she wanted to be comforted, to be left alone, or just to be chatted with. She could rely on them not to disrupt her quiet contemplation. It was relieving to Hermione that she was able to do this, and that they respected her privacy. She valued this treatment greatly, and she loved her Muggle parents immensely, for this and many other wonderful qualities that they possessed. They were magical in their own way.

She flopped onto her bed, which was an ancient, but charming, double bed with four posts and curtains surrounding it, and lay back, simply thinking. Thoughts she had previously had of doing further academic assignments faded away, as did the hours since she had landed there on her bed. Before long, she found her eyes closing, and drifted off into sleep, early on this summer night.

Towards the end of her sleep cycle, she had a strange and memorable dream, which was extremely odd for Hermione as she rarely recalled her sleeping thoughts. This night they consisted of a cold place, and of an odd figure; undefined, but very real. The figure stood in front of her, a mist surrounding it, making it impossible for Hermione to determine its identity. She approached it, and in response it turned and ran away through the snowy landscape. Hermione could not see any of her surroundings except the ground, owing to the massive levels of mist present, but she could feel the cold of the snow there. She pursued the figure, and called out to it as she did so, but it continued to accelerate and soon it was out of the range of the girl's sight. She tried to trace it by footprints, but on looking down to the ground she found the figure had left none…

The rest of her sleep cycle was uninterrupted by strange imagery, and she awoke the next morning to a sharp banging on the door of her bright bedroom. The big bay windows opposite her revealed that it was early morning; a warm light penetrated the room through the same viewpoint.

Hermione slipped off of the bed, and walked over to the door, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she did so, and unlocked the door, opening to find the face of the family butler smiling at her.

"Good morning Miss Hermione. How are we this morning?" He addressed Hermione with the utmost respect.

Hermione flashed her warm smile at him with all of her usual charm. "I'm ok, thank you. Yourself?"

"I am very well, Miss, and thank you for asking. You will, of course, have remembered that you have to catch the Hogwarts Express at eleven, and your parents have asked that you be ready well in advance, in order that I may drive you all to the station. Additionally, this morning I have a letter for you. I was of the impression that all your letters came on the leg of an owl, so I was quite surprised to find this in the post box this morning." The butler handed the young Gryffindor the letter, and left the room, heading back down the stairs to the ground floor.

Hermione took the letter and placed it on her desk, deciding she wanted to get changed first. She found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from her wardrobe, which stood along the left wall of her expansive room, as well as some undergarments, and proceeded to the shower room.

After cleaning herself and putting on her choice of apparel for the journey, she was graced by another visit from the butler. He came up to her room with a rack of toast and a cup of tea of a similar size to that which her father had had the previous night. Hermione, too, was a fan of the 'flagon of tea'. She thanked the butler and he once again disappeared to serve Hermione's parents.

She consumed the toast rapidly, fighting the hunger in her belly until it was as miniscule as a millipede, and then, remembering the letter, wandered over to her rustic desk and picked up the envelope, which possessed a slight brown tinge, as if it were very old. She examined the writing and almost instantly recognized it, with no doubt in her mind as to the creator of the script.

She proceeded with trepidation to the task of opening the envelope. Doing so carefully so as not to damage the note that would undoubtedly be inside, she quivered in both the early-morning breeze, which permeated her room via the open window, and her uncertainty of what the letter might contain.

Finally, the envelope was opened, and Hermione pulled out the letter, which was written by hand on old, fragile paper which too possessed a light brown colouring and the same unmistakable handwriting.

With her heart pumping a little more than usual, she began to scan the text.

And it read:

Dear Hermione…